Imagine That

Alright I’ll admit it. I occasionally, while waiting for my wife to finish at the hair salon, pickup one of those female oriented magazines. You know which ones I mean. 500 hundred pages of ads with a short article thrown in every so often. The covers always feature a beautiful model or female celebrity with a list of tantalizing features screaming for you to pick it up to read; “How to get that killer job,” “Better sex in 30 days,” “Food and the new bikini,” or the one that caught my attention that particular moment “Build your fantasy mate?” For what ever reason, those words caught my attention. Who after years of surveying the females on this planet hasn’t dreamed of creating the perfect mate? The smile of this actress, the body of that passing woman, the hair of your assistant at work, the personality of your wife’s best friend, the mind of a honest politician, the breast of… You get the picture. To be Doctor Frankenstein but use your powers for good; your own good!

So there I sat on an uncomfortable window seat amongst various shapes and sizes of women, breathing in a toxic mixture of hair solutions, as my wife was seemingly finishing up. Not wanting anyone to think that I actually read this drivel, I discretely leafed through the endless pages of advertisements until I found the article. There it was a composite pictorial of what the author believed was the perfect male. The brain of a computer wizard, the smile of an actor, the hair of yet another actor, the body of a professional wrestler and the eyes of…

“You’re done? You look great. Oh yeah I was just looking at all the interesting ads in this magazine. Its late do you want to go find drinks and dinner. Oh I’m sorry I didn’t know that I supposed to pay.”

With that I put the magazine down and walked over to the counter to pay the receptionist.

Outside I suggested an Italian restaurant with the outdoor patio with decent food at reasonable prices. She mentioned a new Caribbean place that had opened with outdoor seating and marvelous drinks. I lost. Either way it was a beautiful May evening in New York City and as long as the drinks were drinks were strong, I’d be happy.

In route I asked her to describe her fantasy male. She asked why. I told her about the pictorial in the magazine and that it had piqued my interest. She said that she was happy with me and wouldn’t change a thing. I thought to myself bullshit; she’s never satisfied with anything. She never asked me about my perfect mate. We walked the rest of the way in silence.

The restaurant had a typical faux island décor; a varied selection of tropical fish affixed to brightly colored walls, fishing nets hanging from the ceiling, slowly turning fans, travel posters showing long stretches of desolate beaches, metal signs advertising island beers, the sound of surf and seagulls emitting from a hidden source. The staff looked as if the had come directly from the beach with hair in dreadlocks while sporting white shirts, white slacks and bare feet.

“Welcome to paradise,” said a gentleman in a thick patois. “Take a seat anywhere you want. Remember to look at our drink specials. We are most proud of them. Drinks you’ll find nowhere else outside of Trinidad.”

We sat down outside in a cordoned off area separated from the sidewalk by a temporary barricade festooned with painted seascapes. All we needed was the feel of sand under our feet.

Both of us picked up a drink menu and found that the gentleman was correct. The libations described were nothing we had seen before even during our numerous trips to the islands. As we scanned down the list of possibilities the names sounded more exotic, their ingredients more foreign and their descriptions more bizarre.

“There is one additional beverage, not on the menu. It is not for the faint at heart. It will set your mind and body free.” As quick as he came he was gone again.

We looked at each other. We were thirsty. We were hungry. It was late and getting later. The waiter certainly succeeded at providing a laidback island atmosphere but this was ridiculous. This was New York City and we wanted a menu not just drink options!

Once again like magic a waiter appeared and inquired of our drink choices. We ordered the special, unnamed beverage. He smiled. We inquired about seeing a menu. He smiled again while raising a single brow “wait, you may not want to eat with us.”

What did that mean? We were stunned. We looked around to find a roomful of people smiling, talking, drinking and eating.

Our drinks arrived as did a small plate of complimentary appetizers. They looked ordinary, they smelled ordinary, and they even tasted ordinary. So what was the big deal? Once again we asked the waiter for a menu. He just smiled and walked away. Now we were totally confused as we sat there slowly enjoying our drink.

I don’t know what was in the drink but I began to feel a warming sensation flowing through my veins, down to my toes and my fingers. I felt a clearness of mind and a sense of serenity. I looked at my wife and saw the biggest smile on her face.

“What would my fantasy mate be? He would have a full head of brown hair, green eyes, a smile that could light up a room, a slight cleft in his chin and a pair of deep dimples. He would be 5 feet 9 inches tall with a muscular build with nary an ounce of flab or body hair. His manner would be a combination of British politeness and New York aggressiveness. He’d have a great sense of humor and enjoy broad comedy but would also cry at sappy women’s films. He’d worship me 24 hours a day and service me sexually as I see fit. And oh, he’d have a 10 inch dick to satisfy me. Is that what you wanted to know?”

Whoa that came from out of the blue. I was totally taken aback by her candor. How do I respond to that? Well out it came…

“I would like my mate to have long flowing blond hair with beautiful catlike blue eyes. Voluptuous lips to give great head. A cute little nose on a perfectly formed face. Her body would be petite but not too petite with huge 38D breasts accentuating her perfectly trim body. She’d have the brains of grad student and the sexual appetite of a slut.”

Where the hell did that come from?

We looked at each other and then at the half finished drinks on the table. Neither of us knew what to do or say. I was starting to feel strange sensations on my skin and it appeared that she was being affected as well. What the hell was going on? I quickly took a twenty from my pocket; put it on the table and we both ran from the restaurant.

Moving quickly towards home, I felt my shirt getting tighter while my pants were getting looser. Looking over at my wife she was grasping at her chest while her blouse was beginning to drape more loosely. She was also having a problem running because her movement was being constrained by her tightening pants.

By the time we made it home we were barely capable of moving. All we desired to do was to tear off our clothing. Our skin felt alive, stretching and contracting with each passing second. Off went both our shirts, pants and underwear. There before use was the change. I had transformed into my perfect mate and she had as well. But there was one catch; she had changed into what she had physically wanted in a man and me into what I had wished for in a woman. So as I stood there naked, with my pair of 38D breast hanging freely, I got on my knees and gave her 10 inch dick the best blow job the slut I had become could.